


Night Flight

by purewanderlust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is killing children in rural Mckenzie, Tennessee, but the Winchesters' first case after Dean is cured of being a demon is anything but straightforward. Can the boys crack the case before another child dies? And will Sam ever get his brother to open up about his feelings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Flight

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to everyone who supported me in this endeavor. This was one of the most challenging fics I've ever written; I'm asexual and the decision to write Dean as an ace character was really important to me. I wanted to get everything just right. I'm not 100% satisfied with it, but I'll leave it up to you to decide its value.
> 
> This fic was written for the first annual Ace Supernatural Mini-bang, a tradition that will hopefully continue for many years to come. Thanks so much to the wonderful mods over at acespnminibang for putting this all together.
> 
> And of course, thanks so much to the incomparable stormbrite for the fabulous art and encouragement.
> 
> If you enjoy this fic, please take a minute to shoot me a comment, like I said, this topic is very near and dear to my heart, and though it's only incidental to the plot, it's a part of my daily life.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

It happens a few weeks after Sam gets his brother back. To say things have been tense would be a massive understatement. Dean still hasn't forgiven himself for trying to kill Sam, despite the fact that Sam has told him a hundred times that it's okay.

Or tries to tell him, anyway.

The first time Sam tries to get Dean to talk about it is the same night he cures his brother. When he comes back from the diner down the road, arms laden with greasy bags of junk food, there’s a part of Sam that’s sure he’s going to find his brother gone.

Of course, he’s not. Cas is standing sentry in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway, affording him a good view of Dean’s closed bedroom door. For a moment, he looks like the guardian angel he’s always been, trenchcoat notwithstanding.

“Has he come out at all?” Sam asks, setting the bags down on the table. Cas shakes his head shortly.

“He said he wanted to be left alone,” answers the angel, glancing down the hallway, concern clear in his eyes. Castiel turns back to Sam, his expression intense. “Sam, I don’t mean to minimize your success today, but you must remember, Dean still has the Mark of Cain, and that could still affect him."

“I know, Cas, just. One thing at a time, okay?” Sam sighs. “We cured him. Let’s just let that be enough for now. And hey, thanks. You saved my ass back there.”  
  


Cas cocks his head in that way that’s become so familiar. “Sam. You had the advantage.” Sam doesn’t answer and Cas sighs, a resigned sound. “I suppose I should stop being surprised at your willingness to value your brother’s life above your own. Both of you.”

Sam shrugs, feeling uncomfortable under the angel’s scrutiny. “He’s my brother.”

“Yes. I know he is.” Cas glances down the hallway one more time. “I must go. Hannah is in the car, I should not keep her waiting.”

“Sure. I’m gonna go see if I can get Dean to eat something. Thanks, Cas. For everything.”

There’s no answer but the flutter of wings as Cas disappears. Apparently he’s gotten some of his mojo back.

Sam sighs and gathers the bags from the table and heads down the long hallway to Dean’s room.

The door to Dean’s bedroom might as well be a hellgate from the hesitance Sam feels about opening it. He raises his fist to knock and it hangs there in the air for a solid minute before he finally summons up the courage to bring it down on the wood.

“It’s open.”

Sam turns the knob and the door swings inward. Dean is sitting with his back to his brother, shoulders hunched, staring at something in his hands. He doesn’t look up when Sam takes a step into the room.

“I, uh, I brought you some dinner. Thought you might be hungry.”

For a moment, there’s no reaction, and then Dean’s right shoulder slips up in a half-shrug. Sam takes it for an invitation and takes two more steps into the room.

Dean opens the drawer in his bedside table and drops whatever he was looking at into the drawer, sliding it shut before turning to face Sam. It doesn’t escape Sam’s notice that though his brother is turned towards him, his eyes are fixed on the floor.

“Burger?” Sam offers holding out one of the bags. Dean takes it from him, but doesn’t open it. When Sam gingerly sits down next to him, his whole body goes tense and his hands clench around the paper bag, crushing it. Sam feels bad, but he knows they’re going to have to talk about this before it turns into An Issue with capital letters.

“Dean, listen…” Sam starts, but before he can even finish the thought, Dean is on his feet.

“I’m gonna go for a walk.” he says without looking at Sam, and he picks up his jacket and shrugs into it.

“What, Dean, wait--”

But Dean’s already gone, the door slamming behind him, leaving Sam alone in the room with twenty dollars worth of diner food going cold and congealing in his hands.

After that, Sam doesn’t try to bring it up again. Sure, that first night, Dean eventually came back, though hours had passed and he smelled like a brewery--not to mention the rather magnificent black eye he was sporting. What if next time he just stays away? Sam would rather not have his brother out of his sight, thanks very much, so dropping the subject seems like the best plan, for now. It kills him to see Dean tearing himself apart about this, but it's a better alternative than Dean taking off and finding someone else to do it for him.

Instead, Sam focuses on returning their lives to the status quo. Dean wanders the bunker like a ghost, rarely making eye contact and only speaking when absolutely necessary. He spends a lot of time in his room, and makes excuses to be wherever Sam isn’t. Sam goes about his business with forced good cheer; making breakfast every morning, going out to jog, practicing in the shooting range, and archiving some of the paperwork in one of the innumerable rooms of the bunker. He pretends not to notice that Dean rarely eats what Sam puts in front of him, or that he won’t so much as touch any of the weapons that they have lying around. It’s just going to take some time for his brother to get back on his feet, Sam tells himself. They can’t live like this forever. But after more than a week, Dean is showing no sign of getting better and Sam is starting to get desperate.

Two weeks after Dean is cured, Sam comes into the kitchen where his brother is letting a plate of pancakes go cold and drops a newspaper onto the table in front of Dean.

"Three toddlers have gone missing over the last month in Mckenzie, Tennessee. They found the body of the third yesterday. His heart and liver were missing."

It takes a moment, but finally Dean looks up from his plate. For the first time in the last week, there's actually a flicker of interest in his eyes. Sam pushes away the feeling that he's manipulating his brother. He knew when he found it that this case would get Dean's attention--dead kids always do. But if things were normal, they'd still probably be taking care of it. It’s not like he picked this case specifically to trigger Dean’s parental instincts. Mostly.

After what seems like ages, Dean's gaze drops to the paper. "You thinking werewolf?"

"Doesn't match the lunar cycle," Sam answers, trying not to make his relief too obvious. "But it's definitely our kind of thing."

Dean nods slowly. "Probably about five hours drive." he said, voice rough from days of disuse. "We can head out today."

"Good. Great." Sam smiles, stepping back towards the kitchen door. "I'll just go get packed. I'll be ready in twenty."

Dean is back to not looking at him, but he grunts an assent and, at this point, Sam'll take what he can get.

They've been on the road for an hour and a half before Sam tries to broach the topic that's been hanging over them again. His brother is bobbing along with the music, scrimmed in golden sunlight and almost looking like his normal self again. It makes Sam think that maybe he can get through to him.

"Dean..."

Something in his tone must key his brother in to what he's up to, because he immediately leans forward and turns up to the radio. AC/DC blasts from the speakers and Sam frowns. "Dean, c'mon."

"Don't, Sammy."

"I just think we need to talk about it before things get bad."

"What, like bad enough that I try to kill you?" Dean shoots back, his voice like ice.

Sam hesitates, but only for a moment. “Dude, that wasn’t you--”

“Don’t give me that shit, Sam.” Dean snarls, “You know just as well as I do that it was. I still had my soul. I still knew the difference between right and wrong. I just didn’t give a fuck.”

“But--”

Dean slams an open hand against the steering wheel. “No buts! I came after you with a hatchet. If Cas hadn’t shown up I would’ve killed you. You would be _dead_ right now.” Abruptly he cuts off with a choking sound. After a few moments, he visibly pulls himself back together, his voice hushed. “I can’t talk about this with you, Sammy. Please don’t make me.”

And God help him, Sam doesn’t. Relief skitters across Dean’s expression and he sits back, his iron grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly.

Sam tries not to feel guilty. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve pushed so hard so soon, but he knows they’re going to have to talk about it eventually. These things always have a way of springing back up on the Winchester brothers at the worst possible moment.

He knows that Dean is not a huge fan of sharing and caring. Hell, one of the first memories he has is of a nine year-old version of his brother begging him to stop asking questions about their mom. Any time anything gets remotely emotional, Dean clams up like a monk taking a vow of silence. It’s been that way as long as Sam can remember.

There’s probably some psychology he could cite--the fact that Dean had to grow up way too fast and was raised without any nurturing or maternal figures likely plays a huge part in it--but none of that really matters. Dean is the way he is. Sam has mostly adjusted and can manage it. Though his brother would probably see things differently, Sam makes a point to only push for these conversations when it’s really important. There’s no reason to cause Dean undue distress over meaningless “chick-flick moments.”

This is not one of those moments. If he lets this one go, Dean’s going to do something stupid and ruin them. Maybe forever this time.

But he can postpone it. Long enough for Dean to ease back into their version of normal. Long enough that he won’t bite Sam’s head off for addressing the problem.

After this hunt. Sam thinks to himself, I’ll make sure we talk after the hunt.

They start at the morgue. Even after all these years, Sam still hates it. He hates the smell, the pervading stench of formaldehyde and despair, the buzzing fluorescent lights that wash out all the color, and the creepy people that inevitably work there.

But more than anything, he hates seeing the people they didn’t save. As they stride through the door like they own the place, Sam spots a metal gurney covered with a sheet. The body underneath is clearly too small to be an adult, and he feels his stomach give a lurch.

The medical examiner rushes to block their entrance, blue-gloved hands waving through the air. “Who the hell are you?” she demands, flicking her bangs out of her eyes with an agitated motion. “You can’t be down here.”

They flip their badges open in sync. “Special Agents May and Taylor, FBI.” Dean says smoothly, already cranking up the charm. His eyes flick to her name, embroidered on her lab coat. “You’re Dr. Chula, I presume?” He grins, bright and sexy and completely fake.

The medical examiner doesn’t notice, of course. They rarely do. Instead her scowl fades and she smiles back. “You can call me Grace. I assume you’re here about the Michaels boy?”

“Right in one,” says Dean. His expression is somber, but he’s leaning in, head tilted just so, eyebrows raised. Sam is certain Dean knows exactly what he’s doing.

She nods. “Terrible business,” she answers, even as her eyes are tracking down Dean’s body, catching on his Adam’s apple, his chest, his hands. Sam clenches a fist in his pocket and bites down on the inside of his cheek, the old familiar irritation and jealousy welling up.

“Can we see the body, please?” he says, too abruptly if Dean’s surprised expression is any indication.

Grace (Dr. Chula to him, Sam suspects) shoots him a glare, her mouth thinning in annoyance. “Of course, right this way, agents.” She leads them across the room to the tiny covered shape on the gurney. “They found him in the woods less than 500 feet from his backdoor. He’s in perfect condition other than the missing organs.”

When she pulls the sheet back to reveal the body, Sam forces himself to maintain a neutral expression. The boy is so tiny, completely innocent and undeserving of this fate. Sometimes Sam really hates their job.

"The report said this isn't the first case like this in the area." Dean says, glancing back up at the medical examiner.

Grace shakes her head. "I wish I could say it isn't true, but this is the third attack of its kind. Elsie Case and Rebecca Murphy, ages two and three, respectively, were the other victims." She shrugs, apologetic. "I'd show you their bodies, but they were both released to their families last week."

"What was the official ruling on the autopsies?" asks Dean.

Grace frowns, her forehead creasing. “Everyone is insisting that it’s animal attack. Maybe a coyote or a bobcat, but I’m not buying it. These wounds are too precise,” she indicates with her pen the lacerations on the boy’s torso. “No animal I’ve ever seen goes for just two organs and leaves the rest. But for now, the COD is ‘undetermined.’ Nobody wants to think there's a person out there doing this."

"Can you forward the case files?" Sam asks.

"And the contact information for the victims' families, if possible." Dean adds.

Grace nods. “Anything I can do to get this taken care of. I’m sick of seeing kids on my table.” She pulls out a business card and scribbles on the back. “Do call if you have any other questions. Or if you need anything at all.” Sam’s sure he isn’t imagining the leading quality to that statement, especially when Dean exchanges cards with her, eyebrows raising just a hair when he sees whatever she’s written.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Sam says tightly, accidentally-on-purpose jostling Dean’s shoulder as he turns to go. “Thanks so much for all your help.”

“Dude,” Dean says with a smirk as they emerge into the sunlight. “Not even in town for an hour, and I’ve already got a phone number.” He spins Dr. Chula’s business card in his hand so Sam can see her personal cell phone number scribbled on the back. “I am a master.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever Dean,” Sam says, mostly by rote. It’s pretty clear that Dean is trying to get them back on something like normal footing, and if it means he starts letting his guard down, Sam is willing to play along. He’s been playing a version of this twisted game his entire life, after all. “Just remember the case comes first, hmm?”

Dean pulls a fake pout. “You never let me have any fun, Sam.”

“I make it my life’s mission to be a killjoy,” Sam deadpans. “Should we go interview the victim’s family?”

“Sounds good. Hopefully Grace will have emailed contact info for the other two families by the time we’re done.”

Dean is quiet on the drive to the Michaels’ house, watching the road carefully with his hands at ten and two. Sam can’t tell if it’s the case that’s bothering him, or if he’s still berating himself for the demon fiasco. Knowing Dean, it’s probably an unhealthy combination of both.

The drive is too short for Sam to actually have an opportunity to say anything, and before he knows it, Dean is pulling up to the curb in front of a light blue two-story house. There are still toys scattered in the yard, at the base of a little plastic slide. Sam turns to glance at his brother and sees he’s noticed too, if the haunted look in his eyes is anything to go by.

“Let’s go,” he says hoarsely and Sam nods, climbing out of the car.

When they reach the porch, Sam is the one to knock on the door. Dean always lets him take point when they talk to witnesses; he’s as subtle as a bull in a china closet, and he knows it. Sam sometimes wonders if Dean is truly unaware of the effect that he has on people. He may be brash and too blunt, but people will forgive anything if he just bats those stunning green eyes at them.

The door opens a crack and a woman’s face appears just above the chain. She looks as if she hasn’t slept in days, her eyes puffy and red from crying. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Mrs. Michaels,” Sam says, trying to inject as much sympathy into his voice as possible. I’m Agent Taylor, this is Agent May. We’re with the FBI.”

The woman’s eyes narrow. “I’ve already spoken to the police.”

“Of course, ma’am, and we’ll try and take as little of your time as possible,” Sam replies. “But the FBI is conducting its own investigation into these deaths. I was hoping you could tell use a little bit about Anthony.”

“We called him Tony.”

Sam raises his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry. Do you have a few minutes to talk to us about Tony?”

The woman eyes them both for another few seconds. Sam tries to look as reassuring as someone of his stature can, and hopes Dean is doing the same behind him. Finally, she shuts the door and Sam can hear the sound of the chain being undone. When the door opens again, she steps to the side and gestures for them to come in. “Five minutes.”

She leads them into the living room they take a seat on the couch opposite her armchair. Sam tries not to be too bothered by the space Dean leaves between them when he sits down.

“Thank you, Mrs. Michaels. Can you tell us a little bit about your son?” Sam asks.

The woman’s expression tightens. “He was a sweet little boy. Only three years old, but he had this way of making everyone around him smile.” She sniffs and takes a tissue from the box on the coffee table between them. “I’m sorry, that’s probably not relevant to your investigation. Is there something specific you need to know?”

Sam nods, giving her a reassuring smile. “The report said your son disappeared from your backyard, correct? About what time of day was that?”

“Um, probably six or seven in the evening? He’d already had dinner, but he didn’t want to take his bath. You know how kids are. I told him he could play on the swing set for a few minutes, but only if he promised to be good and take his bath right away afterwards.” Her eyes flood with tears. “The phone rang...I stepped back into the kitchen to answer it. I was only gone a couple minutes, but--” She breaks off with a sharp gasp, covering her face with her hand.

“I think that’s all we need for now,” Dean cuts in. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Michaels. Do you mind if my partner and I take a look around your backyard on our way out? There might be something that could help.”

Mrs. Michaels nods, waving a hand in the direction of the back door. “I can’t go back out there, but by all means.”

“Thank you,” Sam repeats as they rise. He shakes her hand gently as if she’s made of glass. “We’re going to do everything in our power to find whatever is responsible for this.”

By the time Sam follows his brother out into the yard, Dean has already got the EMF out and is scanning the hedges near the back of the lawn.

“No fence?” Sam asks and he shakes his head.

“No, just the line of bushes. Perfect place for something nasty to lurk and nab the kid when mom wasn’t looking.”

Sam frowns. “You can’t possibly be blaming that woman, Dean. How often do kids get grabbed out of their own backyard?”

“I don’t blame her,” Dean retorts, sounding a little irritated. “But if you think she isn’t going to spend the rest of her life blaming herself, you’re more naive than I thought.” Before Sam can think to formulate a response, he flicks the EMF reader off and shoves it back into his pocket. “No EMF or any kind of prints in the ground. Time to go.”

There’s really nothing for Sam to do but follow his brother back to the car. Dean is sitting behind the wheel, looking ancient and tired and all Sam wants to do is wrap himself around his brother and tell him that it’s all going to be okay.

Right. Like that won’t end with a broken nose and even more distance between them then there already is. Sam’s well-versed in the language of Dean, and he knows full well the list of lines he cannot cross with his brother.

Instead, he slides into the passenger seat and closes the door. “Where to now?”

“I’ll drop you at the library to do some more research on the creature of the week while I go interview the other two families. We know it goes for hearts and livers, prefers children, and doesn’t leave traces of EMF.”

“That’s enough to start with,” Sam agrees rather than arguing that he doesn’t want to split up. Dean is going to do what Dean is going to do, there’s no use trying to stop him.

Dean nods, putting the car into gear. “Let’s take care of this one quick, yeah? Before more kids die.”

True to his word, Dean drops Sam at the door to the library before roaring off like a black streak down the street. Sam wastes two seconds worrying that his brother has ditched him, never to return, before he reminds himself that Dean would sooner lose an arm than let a bunch of little kids get murdered.

The library is cool and quiet in that specific way that small-town libraries always are, and Sam feels himself relax almost immediately. He finds a corner that’s out of the way and sets up his laptop to start researching.

There are so many monsters that eat children. Trolls, ogres, even some gods. Demons, too, on occasion. Sam remembers, with a horror that hasn’t dampened over the years, discovering that Lillith’s meal of choice was newborn babies.

He steers his mind away, not liking to think too long about those years; possibly the last time he and Dean were so distant. He pulls up a search bar and decides instead to focus on the specific missing organs. Werewolves eat hearts, but the moon cycle isn’t right. Kelpies eat everything _but_ the liver. Even after so many years on the job, the knowledge that this very well could be something they’ve never seen before frustrates Sam. If any more children die because they aren’t fast enough to solve it...

Well. Sam doesn’t really want to think about it.

Between the surprisingly extensive mythology collection and the internet, Sam comes up with a list of possible culprits before Dean shows back up to get him. He hears the rumble of the Impala and gathers up his things and books it for the door before Dean can start leaning on the horn. Sam's learned never to get on a librarian's bad side. It's truly unfortunate that his brother is the epitome of everything that raises their ire.

Thankfully, Dean is feeling patient today, and Sam makes it to the car without incident. When he sees Dean's expression, he mentally corrects the assumption; Dean isn't patient, the case is getting to him. He curses himself for letting Dean interview the other families alone. He should've known better. Dean has always had a tendency to take cases personally, and with everything else that's between them right now, it's sure to be amplified tenfold.

"Hey," Sam says softly as he slides into the passenger seat.

Dean is staring straight ahead, his expression bleak. "Hey."

"Find anything useful?" Sam asks. His stomach hurts, like he's been bracing too long for a plummet from a great height.

Dean shakes his head. "Just a couple more devastated parents with dead kids." He finally moves, shifting the car into gear. "We should go talk to the sheriff before do anymore digging. Don't want him to catch wind of an illicit investigation."

Sam's throat clicks audibly as he swallows back to urge to ask if Dean wants Sam to take care of it alone. He'd only serve to piss his brother off, and that wouldn't be helping anyone.

"Sure," he says instead, ignoring the twist in his gut. "Let's do it."

The police station shares a building with city hall and the fire department, and is situated across the street from not one or two, but three churches lined up in a row facing the street. Sam stares at them in mild fascination as they pull into the parking lot.

"Never underestimate small town values," Dean mutters, breaking the silence. He seems better since Sam joined him in the car, steadier, but Sam is hesitant to trust it, knowing better than anyone how talented his brother is at cramming his emotions down.

“It’s kinda creepy,” Sam ventures, glancing at Dean’s profile out of the corner of his eye.

Dean’s lips twitch toward a smile, but not a real one. “I’m not disagreeing with you there. C’mon.”

They make it about three steps towards the door before they’re stopped by a voice from behind.

“Well I’ll be damned, ya’ll look like a coupla feds!”

Sam and Dean turn at the same time to face the speaker. He’s a portly man, barely scraping five feet, in a police uniform and badge. The majority of his pink face obscured by mirrored aviator sunglasses and he’s holding a handkerchief that he periodically uses to mop the sweat from his brow. He looks up and up at the Winchesters towering over him, but doesn’t seem cowed by their height.

“They feed you boys growth hormones out there at Quantico?” he demands.

“How’d you know we were feds?” Sam asks.

The cop quirks an eyebrow at them. “I make it my business to know what’s going on in my town. Sheila Michaels called and told me some good-lookin’ boys in suits had paid her a visit. Figured it was only a matter of time ‘fore you showed up here.”

“You’re the sheriff,” Dean says, a trace of humor in his voice and Sam wants to elbow him in the gut.

He resists the urge and sticks his hand out to the sheriff instead. “Agent Taylor. My partner here is Agent May.”

The sheriff shakes Sam’s hand briefly, a stronger grip than he’d expected. “Doug Bullard. Now you boys mind telling me what you’re doin’ here?”

“We received a tip that there had been some mysterious deaths in town, toddlers.” Sam answers smoothly. “And your ME doesn’t seem convinced that it was wild animals.”

“I’d be surprised if she did,” Bullard replies. “It’s definitely some weird shit. But there’s no suspects either, so we’re kinda at a loss.”

“Could we get copies of the case files?” asked Sam. “Dr. Chula forwarded her results, but we’d like to see what information your police department has collected as well.”

“Not a whole helluva lot, to be honest. But I can get you the files. Go in and talk to my assistant, Stephanie. I’m headin’ out on patrol, myself. We can’t be too careful in times like these.”

“No sir,” Sam and Dean say in unison.

“I ain’t usually one to be thrilled to have G-men in town, but I think we could use all the help we can get on this one.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sams says, “We appreciate your cooperation.”

“I’d appreciate if you get my town back from the brink of panic, hmm?” Chief Bullard nods, once, and turns to get into his patrol car. “You boys have a good’un.”

“Well he’s an interesting character,” Dean says as the sheriff drives away. Sam finally gives in to the urge to elbow him and gets a surprised oof for his efforts.

“Why you always gotta antagonize cops?”

Dean’s eyes go comically wide. “I didn’t say a thing!”

“You didn’t have to,” Sam mutters and is surprised and pleased when a real grin flashes momentarily across Dean’s face.

“Well, whatever, at least Andy Griffith there isn’t gonna get in the way of our investigation,” Dean says, shoving his shoulder against Sam’s. “Let’s go get those files.”

Sam doesn’t argue, following him into the police station, cautiously optimistic about the slow return to normalcy.

He doesn’t let his hopes get too high, though. They are Winchesters, after all, and it’s not uncommon for all the good things in their lives to go up in flames.

They spend the rest of the afternoon back at the motel, pouring over the information they’ve collected, trying to figure it out. Dean’s got the case photos pinned up on the wall like Dad used to do, and Sam watches him pace in front of the display over the top of his laptop. Every time Dean glances over, he drops his eyes to the screen again, knowing that Dean will get defensive and pissy if he realizes Sam is worrying about him.

And Sam is worried. He’d thought that a case would distract Dean from obsessing over what had happened while he was a demon. But he’s still eyeing Sam warily and flinching away when Sam tries to touch him. It’s only going to get worse if they don’t get this case solved quickly. Sam knows his brother better than anyone, and if more kids start dying, Dean is going to blame himself.

Sam’s not going to let that happen. He clears his throat and Dean pauses in his five hundredth circuit past the makeshift board.

“I think it’s an aswang.”

“A what-now?”

“An aswang,” Sam repeats, spinning the laptop so his brother can see the screen. “Filipino monster with a taste for babies and small children. Prefers hearts and livers.” He taps on the screen, pointing out a particular paragraph. “And you said the second mother heard a ticking sound when she went out looking for her daughter?”

Dean looks happier than Sam has seen him in days. “You know how to kill it?”

“Still working on that,” Sam replies, drumming his pen against his lip. He hesitates. “There’s also one other problem.”

“What?”

“Aswang don’t nest like wendigo or vampires do.” Sam answers, keeping his tone neutral. “They’re shapeshifters. Unless they’re hunting, they can look like any average suburbanite.”

Dean curses, dropping into the chair across from Sam, a frown creasing his forehead. “Great. So we know what we’ve got, but not where it is or how to kill it.”

“We’re further along than we were this morning, Dean.” Sam points out. “I’m going to figure out what kills it, and we’ll go from there, okay? There's a couple tricks to detect them, but we wanna know how to kill it before we go after it, anyway.”

Dean sighs and reaches across the table for Sam’s notes. “This all the information you have about the, uh, aswang?”

“Everything I’ve found so far,” Sam replies.  Dean grunts in an answer, settling back in the chair to read his brother’s notes while Sam continues his research.

Sam is unfocused. He’s been at it for hours, and now Dean is sitting across from him, shuffling through his notes, closer than he’s been all day. Under the table, one of Dean’s feet is sitting between his and Sam has the bizarre urge to push his foot closer, pressing their legs together from knee to ankle.

Dean would kick his ass if he knew his little brother was daydreaming about playing footsie with him, or whatever the hell this is. San is used to having weird thoughts regarding Dean, but this need to touch his brother is starting to verge on desperation. He shakes himself mentally and goes back to work, still acutely aware of his brother’s presence just an armslength away.

They're at it for hours, and suddenly Sam looks up and it's nearly midnight. His stomach rumbles, making itself known well past when lunch and dinner would've been appropriate. Just another aspect of the life, these weird hours they keep.

Dean hasn't noticed Sam's lapse in focus, still engrossed in a heavy volume on Eastern mythology. He probably hasn't even realized how much time has passed; Dean has always counted on his stomach to keep track of time, and he hasn't been eating much lately.

The thought spurs Sam to action. "Dean, hey."

Dean looks up, eyes clouded, and blinks at his brother a couple times. Sam wonders if he's absorbed anything he's read in the last hour. They're both exhausted.

"We need a break, man. Let's go get some food."

"Time's it?" Dean asks.

"Almost midnight. C'mon, let's go eat." He stands up, sighing as back clicks and pops.

Dean's gaze drops back to the book. "You go, I wanna keep looking."

"Dude, you've been at it for hours. You gotta take a break."

Dean looks up sharply. "I don't gotta do anything," he snaps. "I don't need mothering, Sam."

Sam resists the urge to flinch, if only barely. "You haven't had anything to eat all day." He doesn't know why he's so reluctant to leave Dean alone; they do solo food runs all the time. But Sam knows as certainly as he did that his visions were real, that something bad is going to happen if he leaves his brother alone.

"Then bring me something back," Dean says reasonably. He's already gone back to the book, dismissing Sam. "Not like you have choices other than fast food at this hour."

Sam frowns. He can't come up with another argument why Dean should come with him. He stands in the doorway for a few more moments, keys dangling from his hand, but Dean is staunchly ignoring him.

Sam's stomach growls again and he gives up, leaving Dean and his book behind. He may slam the door a little harder than strictly necessary, but Dean drives him crazy sometimes.

That doesn't stop him from worrying, though, and he resolved to make the food run as quick as possible.

Sam isn't quick enough. He's through the Taco Bell drive thru and back to the motel within twenty minutes, and still, somehow everything has gone to shit. He can tell immediately when he walks through the door.

Dean is on his feet, phone pressed to his ear, pacing the floor. Sam gets one look at his brother's expression and drops the keys and food on the table, taking an automatic step towards him, arm raised.

Dean shies away, face shuttering, and Sam lets his hand fall back to his side.

"Thank you, Chief. We'll be there first thing in the morning." Dean disconnects the call and meets Sam's eyes. He doesn't have to say it, but he does anyway. "Chloe Sanderson, age three. Went missing around eight tonight. They just found her body."

"Why didn't they call when she went missing?"

Dean shakes his head. "They didn't know. She was in bed. Son of a bitch took her right from her room." He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The mom heard a ticking noise around eleven thirty and went to investigate. Found her in the backyard."

"Dean..." Sam takes another step towards his brother, but Dean sidesteps him, heading for the door. "Where are you going?"

"To get some air," Dean sneers, green eyes narrowing to slits. "Don't worry, it's a dry county, I can't go get wasted like the useless piece of shit I am."

"Dean!" Sam exclaims, but his brother is already out the door. He wants to go after him, but he's never seen his brother this raw. It'd only end in a fight.

He does peek out the window, between the slats of the crappy venetian blinds. Dean is sitting on the hood of the car, smoking one of the cigarettes he keeps under the driver's seat that he thinks Sam doesn't know about.

Sam sits back down in front of the computer, rubbing his eyes. He suddenly feels very tired. He has to figure out how to find and kill this thing before the case breaks Dean completely.

The sound of the door slamming jerks Sam from sleep an indeterminate amount of time later. He jerks upright and immediately regrets it; he'd fallen asleep at the table, head resting on his arms for just a moment, and his neck and back are screaming at him for it now. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, and to remember the sound that woke him up. He turns to look at the door, groaning at the twinge in his spine.

Dean is leaning up against the inside of the door feet crossed at the ankles, a long sinuous line. He's watching Sam with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Hmm?" Sam says on a yawn. He's not quite awake and everything still has the blurry haze of unreality over it.

"I lied. Guess I really am a useless piece of shit," Dean says in answer. His pushes off from the door, swaying a little as he steps towards Sam. "Fuckin' sue me."

Sam blinks slowly. "Are you drunk?"

Dean takes another step in his direction. “Are you drunk?” he echoes back, adopting a prissy voice. “God, Sam, you’re already killing my buzz.”

“Did you drink the vodka out of the field surgery kit?” Sam asks, “Shit, Dean, that stuff was two bucks.”

"Tasted like it, too," Dean agrees, tongue flickering out to wet his lips. "Did the job, though." He smacks his lips again and Sam determinedly does not look at his mouth.

"We're on a case, Dean," he says, as if his brother needs reminding.

"No shit, Sherlock." Now Dean is mocking him, a mean twist to his lips. "Who's fault is that?"

Sam was expecting it, but it still stings. "This is our job, Dean. Would you rather people get killed?"

"Dunno if you've been paying attention, kiddo, but we're here and kids are _still getting killed_!" Dean snarls, "Fat lot of fuckin' good, us being here."

"Dean..." Sam starts, rising from his chair, but Dean rambles on without listening, pacing away from him.

"I can't save anyone, not these kids, and not you." He spins suddenly, eyes wide and fastened on Sam's. "Can't protect you, nearly killed you..."

"That's not--" Sam tries to say, but Dean is across the room and in his face far more quickly than someone that drunk has the right to move. Sam takes an automatic step back and his shoulders hit the wall.

"I -- I can't." Dean whispers, one hand fisting in the front of Sam's shirt. Sam doesn't move, not sure what his brother's is going to do next. So he's taken completely by surprise when Dean's free hand comes up to cup the side of his face. "Sammy. Most important thing in my whole life."

Sam takes a shallow breath, heart hammering in his chest. "Hey, Dean, it's okay." He's trying, desperately, not to take stock of the way Dean feels pressed up against him, the spring grass-green of his eyes, or of the curve of his lips. They're so close that Sam can smell the alcohol on Dean's breath, close enough to count the freckles scattered on the bridge of his nose. "Maybe you should get some sleep."

Dean laughs, but there's no humor in it. He doesn't even seem to have heard the suggestion. "Oh, Sam. The way I feel about you is the furthest thing from okay."

For a moment, Sam thinks his heart has stopped beating, the whole world narrowed to Dean's hand on his face, his eyes full of loathing, every bit of it directed inward. "Wh--what do you mean?"

Dean opens his mouth, his expression puzzled. He doesn't seem to have expected the question. "I. You. You're it. All I ever lo--loved." The words are halting, like Dean doesn't know how to express himself.

"I love you too, Dean." Sam answers, pushing back the automatic wave of embarrassment that comes with the words.

Dean shakes his head. "That's not what I mean, and you know it." His hand is still on Sam's face and he's leaning closer, his other hand clenching and unclenching in the front of Sam's shirt.

Sam shivers. His mouth is as dry as a desert and this is all he's ever wanted. But Dean. Dean is wasted and broken-hearted and wracked with guilt. Not to mention one other crucial detail that Sam knows about his brother, even if Dean doesn’t. Sam will never forgive himself if he takes advantage of this.

"Dean, wait--" he pushes gently on his brother's shoulder and slides out from between Dean and the wall. "I--I think we should get some sleep."

He turns just in time to see Dean's defenses slam down, wiping the crumpled look from his face. By the time he's facing his brother fully, Dean's expression is impassive, eyes flat and empty.

Dean nods. "Yeah. Okay."

Sam's stomach twists. "I'm not saying I don't--"

"Yeah, Sam, I got it." Dean interrupts. He strides over to his bed, movements stiff, and throws back the blankets. "We gotta be at the station at eight in the morning." He kicks off his boots and crawls under the covers without looking at Sam.

He shuts the lamp off before Sam can answer, throwing the room into darkness. Sam stands motionless for a few more minutes staring at the tense curve of Dean's shoulders, but his brother appears to be done with him. Finally, he gives up and crawls into his own bed.

He doesn't get much sleep.

Sam's phone alarm chirps far too early for his liking, and he groans, fumbling to shut it off. He spent the majority of the night tossing and turning, watching the clock click over from three to four, to five. Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, Sam goes over last night in his head for the thousandth time. Finally, he forces himself to sit up.

Dean is across the room at the laptop. He doesn't look up, but jerks his head in the direction of the side table. "Breakfast."

There's a cup of coffee and a paper bag with some kind of greasy sandwich, and Sam takes it gratefully. "Thanks," he hesitates. "Where's yours?"

"Already ate."

Sam doesn't believe that for one minute, but he's not about to argue with Dean right now. He eats his sandwich in silence, feeling pretty miserable. Dean doesn't acknowledge him again, tapping away at the computer keys. He doesn't give any indication that he's feeling last night's drinking, but Dean's notoriously stubborn. He obviously doesn't want Sam to see if he's hungover, but Sam doesn't call him on it, wanting to avoid a fight.

When Sam crumples his wrapper and drops it back into the bag, Dean finally glances up.

"Ready?"

Sam nods, shoving his feet into his boots. By the time he finger-combs his hair into something presentable and gets to his feet, Dean is already out the door, sitting behind the wheel of the Impala. Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, pushing all the shit that's between them to a dark corner of his brain. He has firsthand knowledge of how emotions can compromise a job, and he's not about to let more kids die in the wake of their personal drama.

He gets into the car and pretends he doesn't see how Dean isn't looking at him.

"Alright, let's go."

The officer that meets them at the station is decidedly not the sheriff. Her name is Detective O'Hara and she's tall, blonde, and gorgeous.

Dean perks right the fuck up. He doesn't flirt obviously, but his posture changes and his smirk becomes more pronounced.

"Good morning, detective," he grins.

For some reason, this display of bravado gets under Sam's skin more than it ever has before. Dean essentially confessed his love for him last night--something Sam had been fantasizing about since the time he was sixteen--and now Dean wants to go back to flirting with every girl that crosses his path, like nothing ever happened. It stings. Sam understands his brother, probably better than anyone else ever has, and he knows Dean put himself out there and is running scared, but that doesn't stop it from hurting.

After the hunt, Sam reminds himself. He curls his hands into fists under his crossed arms and gives the detective a thin smile. "All due respect, but I thought the sheriff would be meeting us."

Detective O'Hara doesn't look abashed. "The sheriff is still at the scene interviewing the parents of the deceased, Agent Taylor. I'm more than capable of handing over the files."

Sam opens his mouth and closes it again. He hears Dean coughing in a poor attempt to disguise a laugh, and his face heats. "Excuse me, I didn't mean to suggest--"

"Agent Taylor doesn't get out much," Dean cuts in, no longer trying to hide his amusement.

Detective O'Hara doesn't look particularly impressed with either of them. "Just take the files," she says, her voice still unerringly even. "You can contact the office if you need anything else." She shoves the thick file into Dean's hands. "Please excuse me, I have patrol."

She strides out, her blonde ponytail swishing behind her. As soon as she's gone, all the light goes out of Dean's eyes.

"I'm gonna gonna go to that coffee shop across the street and look over this," he says, gesturing with the file. "Why don't you go see if you can find something at the library on how to kill this motherfucker."

Sam does not want to do that. But Dean will barely look at him, and he reminds himself again that he has to take care of the case before he takes care of his brother. So he shoves it down and nods.

"Okay, call me if you find anything."

Dean doesn't even respond, just tosses Sam the keys and walks out the door.

The library is a bust. Sam hasn't expected a lot, having been there the day before, but he hadn't dared to argue with his brother.

Alone in the library with a book that has no answers, Sam finally allows himself to think about the situation with Dean.

Dean has never been the type to express his emotions readily, so it comes as no surprise that he's shutting Sam out now. The whole situation is exacerbated because Dean didn't give him a chance to react. Not to mention all the shit about his time as a demon that's still between them.

Sam sighs, slamming the book shut and scrubbing at his eyes. Thinking about it is pointless; he's not going to get anywhere until he has a chance to sit Dean down to discuss it. That in an of itself is going to be a near-impossible feat.

He's not finding anything new here, but he thinks it's for the best that he gives Dean some space right now. It's as good a time as any to go interview the most recent victim's parents. If he’s lucky, the sheriff will already have left and he won’t even have to deal with him.

Decision made, Sam puts the books back on the shelf and shoots Dean a text to let him know where he's going. He tries not to feel too disappointed when he doesn’t get an answer.

The house that Sam pulls up to looks empty and he frowns, glancing again at the address he has down. He’s in the right place, but the lights are all out and there are no cars in the garage. The only sign that anyone has been here about the case is the yellow police tape Sam can see ringing the backyard.

He decides to get out and check things out, just in case. There’s probably a simple explanation. Even so, Sam’s hand goes to the gun tucked into the back of his jeans as he approaches the front door.

“Mrs. Sanderson?” He asks, knocking on the front door. “Mr. Sanderson? Is anybody home?”

The door swings open suddenly and Sam is looking down at the sheriff.

“Agent Taylor?” he says, sounding surprised. “What are you doing here? Where’s your partner?”

“Agent May is going over the casefiles back at the station,” Sam answers. “Where are the Sandersons?”

Officer Bullard shakes his head and tsks. “Poor mother was nearly incoherent with grief. Her husband took her to stay with her sister for a while.” He cocks his head and Sam wishes he could see his expression, but his eyes are hidden behind those mirrored aviators. “Now you wanna answer my first question about what you’re doing here?”

Sam doesn’t answer immediately, too busy staring at his own reflection in the sheriff’s sunglasses. Something is niggling at the back of his brain, something to do with the aswang and the ways to identify one.

“Why're you wearing sunglasses indoors?"

Bullard moves so fast, Sam doesn’t even see it. It's only his hunter's instincts--twenty years of training--that save him from getting brained against one of the porch columns. Even so, Sam is brought the ground in the ensuing scuffle, flat on his back, right arm twisted painfully beneath him. He swings up with the heel of his left palm and catches Bullard across the nose, sending his sunglasses flying. The blow stuns him, but only momentarily, and catches Sam’s free hand and tightens his grip around his wrist, pinning Sam in place. He glares down at Sam and his eyes are huge and slitted like a snake’s. Sam can see his reflection in Bullard’s pupils and it’s upside down.

“I knew you weren’t FBI,” snarls the creature. Before Sam can respond, or make another bid for freedom, Bullard unholsters his pistol and brings it down on Sam’s head and everything goes dark.

When Sam comes to, he’s tied to a support beam in some dingy basement. His shoulders are on fire, arms wrenched at awkward angles to be tied behind around the post, and his head is pounding. At first, Sam thinks he’s alone, but a quiet whimper draws his attention and he sees a young woman tied to the beam opposite him. Her hair is a rat’s nest of tangles and there’s a fresh bruise rising on her tear-streaked face.

“Mrs. Sanderson?” he whispers.

“S--stacy,” she stammers. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sam,” he answers. “Don’t worry I’m here to help you.”

She lets out a hysterical little laugh. “You’re tied up too.”

Sam bites his lip. “Don’t worry, I have a plan. Where is your husband?”

Stacy blanches. “He’s gone. I think they k--killed him!”

_They?_

“Stacy, listen, I need you to remain calm, okay?” Sam says, using his most soothing voice. “My brother knows I’m here and we hunt these kind of things. I just need you to do exactly as I say and we may get out of this in one piece.”

Before he can say anymore, he hears a door opening and light floods down from the top of the stairs. There are heavy footsteps and then Bullard is standing in front of him. He’s not bothering with the sunglasses anymore and his slitted eyes flash as he grins at Sam.

“I hope you’re finding the accommodations to your liking,” he says. “I would’ve liked to stay at the Sandersons’ house, but with that big black beast of a car parked out front, it would be like a red flag to that handsome partner of yours.”

Sam doesn’t answer. Bullard looks almost disappointed.

“What, no witty repartee? I was looking forward to the it. I’ve never met a hunter before.” He studies Sam. “You’re an awful big guy, aren’t you? I prefer the little ones’ organs--more tender, you see--but waste not, want not. And hey," he glances over his shoulder at Stacy, "two for the price of one!"

“Wait.” Sam says, finally breaking his silence, “I’m not stupid enough to think you’d let me loose. But let that poor woman go. She’s no threat to you.”

“Ah!” Bullard pupils contract even further and he glances over at Stacy again. “That’s where you’re wrong. It took me a long time to take down that loudmouth cop and replace him without anyone noticing. I’m not about to let this sniveling bitch blow my cover.”

“She won’t!” Sam insists. “Stacy, tell him!”

The woman’s eyes dart between Sam and Bullard. “I--I won’t tell anyone! I swear to God.”

Bullard studies her intently for a long moment, and then breaks out into a grin. “Nope, I don’t buy it! Besides, I killed your hubby and your kiddo. You probably hate me, don’t you?”

Stacy screams, wrenching against her bindings while Bullard laughs.

“Yep, that’s what I thought. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll knock you out before I flay your heart.” He grins again, and his teeth look sharper than before. “Maybe.”

Suddenly the single naked bulb dangling from the ceiling goes out and the whole room is thrown into darkness.

“What the--” Bullard hisses. Sam immediately starts struggling against his bindings. The darkness isn’t absolute and it’ll probably won’t take long for the aswang to adjust to the change. There’s a meaty thwack of something metal hitting flesh and Bullard groans.

A hand closes around his wrist and Sam tenses and then relaxes. “Dean?”

“Shh,” Dean’s voice is low, hot breath tickling his ear as he works at the ropes. “I only stunned him, he’ll be back up in no time. The rope gives suddenly and Sam gasps at the burn in his shoulders.

Dean presses a gun into his hands. Sam’s eyes have adjusted, but his brother is barely an outline in the darkness. “Flashlight,” he whispers and Sam automatically braces himself as he clicks the light on.

Dean has his gun and flashlight pointed towards where Sam last saw Bullard, but the aswang is gone. He pivots, searching the shadows.

 _Tik tik tik tik._ Sam gestures at Dean and his brother turns, flashlight beam lighting up the opposite corner.

The aswang is there, transformed to its true form, and it’s gigantic. It’s arms and and legs are elongated, bent at the joints giving the appearance of a spider, three-inch long claws at the end of each hand and foot. Sam suspects the thing could scale the side of a building if it wanted to. It’s mouth is a gaping chasm of razor-sharp teeth and a long, purple proboscis-like tongue. Stacy screams and it's eyes flicker over to her. It snarls and Dean takes the shot, hitting it squarely in the chest.

The creature staggers, but only becomes more enraged, flinging itself at them. It's only a few feet from Sam and then suddenly Dean shoves him aside and the aswang slams into Dean instead, pinning him against the wall.

Stunned, Sam struggles to get back to his feet. He sees Dean's flashlight rolling across the floor and snatches it up, casting the beam around in a frantic search for his gun.

Dean yelps in pain and Sam wastes a second to look back at his brother. The aswang has him pinned against the wall, but Dean is struggling, kicking out at the creature. It's claws are buried in Dean's right shoulder and his t-shirt is wet with blood.

Sam finally spots his gun and dives for it. Once he's got it in hand, he can't seem to get a clear shot. If he fires now, he's gonna hit Dean too.

If he doesn't fire, the aswang is going to kill him.

Dean kicks out one more time and his booted foot connects, catching the creature in the ribs. The aswang grunts and flinches back, listing slightly to the side. It's all the opening Sam needs. He takes the shot and hits the monster dead center in the back of its head.

The aswang turns to look at Sam, eyes wide with surprise, and then the light goes out of them and it slumps forward. Dean is too close and too slow, and Sam watches in horror as the creature's massive body collapses on top of his brother.

"No! Nononono." Sam runs over, heart in his throat. "Dean? Dean!"

For a long, horrible minute, Sam doesn't hear any reply. He's shaking, seconds from going into shock when he hears a faint response.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice is alarmingly weak, but audible in the silent basement. "Can you...get this damn thing offa me?"

Sam's laugh is tinged with hysteria, but Dean either doesn't notice or comment. It's takes all of Sam's strength to haul the dead weight of the aswang off of his brother.

Dean is covered in blood and barely conscious, but he's alive. Sam's sense of relief is so profound his legs nearly give out from under him. There's not time for that, though, he's still got a kidnapped woman and a seriously injured brother to attend to.

"We need to stop that bleeding," he says, and he's pleased at how even his voice sounds. He strips off his button down and kneels next to Dean, hauling him up into a sitting position.

Dean grimaces, leaning back against the wall, but for the first time in weeks, he doesn't flinch from Sam's touch. He must be hurting pretty bad. "What're we gonna do about the body?"

" _I_ will figure it out," Sam answers, wrapping the shirt as best he can around his brother's injured shoulder. " _You_ will sit right here and try not to bleed out on me." He lets his hand linger on Dean's arm for a second too long before he finally pulls away and goes to free Stacy.

"What was that thing?" She asks, voice low like she's afraid it will get back up if it hears her talking about it.

"It's called an aswang," Sam says, "Listen, Stacy, I know this is the worst day of your life, but I need you to keep it together just a little longer for me, okay?"

Stacy nods, rubbing her wrists to get the circulation back. "You want me and your partner to come up with a story while you take care of that thing?"

"Uh, I--yeah," Sam agrees, surprised and impressed at how well she taking this. "You can go sit over with him, I'm gonna take the thing out of here."

Stacy hesitated, eyeing the creature's body. "You're sure it's dead?"

"Positive."

She nods again and visibly steels herself before marching past the monster and taking a seat next to Dean.

Sam takes the aswang out back and burns it. The basement they were locked in appears to be attached to an abandoned house on a dirt road; he doubts anyone will ever come across it. Even so, he keeps an eye on the smoke and finds some damp leaves to smother the flames.

When he gets back inside, Dean and Stacy are finishing up the details of her story.

"Make sure they think your house is the crime scene, and if anyone asks where Officer Bullard went, just tell them you don't know."

"We'll drop you off at the police station, okay?" Sam interjects. "Can you get out to the patrol car on your own?"

"Yeah. Can he?" Stacy asks, eyeing Dean with some concern. The makeshift bandage of Sam's overshirt is already soaked through, and Dean is pale.

"I got 'em." Sam reassures her. "Just head to the car, we'll meet you there." She obeys instantly, probably eager to get out of this hellhole and Sam allows himself fifteen seconds to just breathe. Dean watches him with a half-lidded gaze that Sam’s sure has more to do with blood loss than any change in his attitude since last night.

“Can you stand at all?” Dean nods and Sam hauls him to his feet, trying to be as gentle as possible. Almost instantly, Dean staggers, slumping against Sam’s side, putting most of his weight on his little brother. Sam manages to get an arm around Dean’s waist and his brother’s uninjured arm around his neck for support before they start their excruciatingly slow trek up the basement stairs. Dean’s head lolls against Sam’s shoulder and he pants for breath, clearly drained by the effort of moving.

It takes forever, but they finally make it to the car. Sam deposits Dean into the back seat and slides in next to Stacy. The keys are still in the ignition and Sam takes a brief moment to appreciate small mercies.

“We have to take the patrol car back to your house so the police don’t trace it here,” Sam says as he shifts into gear. “We’ll switch to our car when we get there and take you to the station, okay?”

Stacy nods, silent in the passenger seat. It looks like she’s starting to run out of that calm reserve she’s kept a hold of so far. Sam drives as quickly as he can get away with, not wanting to have to deal with a breakdown on top of everything else. He gets them back to Stacy’s and they switch cars, Dean only putting up a minor fuss when Sam pulls him out of his doze to move him.

Finally, they get to the police station and Sam pulls up to let Stacy out. To her credit, though her hands are shaking, her eyes are still dry and she offers Sam something that could almost be a smile as she climbs out of the car.

“Thanks, guys.” She says. “I’ve lost a lot today, so...I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“If you ever need anything, give us a call,” Sam tells her, leaning across the passenger seat to hand her their card. “Anything at all.”

“Thanks,” she says again, spinning the card aimlessly between her fingers. “I need to go. Just. Take care of yourselves, okay?” She shuts the door and staggers into the station without an answer, so Sam takes off before someone can come out to investigate.

“Strong girl,” Dean mumbles from the back seat.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Strong girl.”

As he was first dragging the stinking beast off his brother, Sam had been struck with the absurd urge to laugh. That feeling has long since passed, and by the time they pull back into the motel parking lot, he's nothing but angry. Dean never takes care of his own well-being, and one of these days, it's going to get him killed.

"I swear to God, you're lucky you're injured or I'd be kicking your ass right now," Sam says out loud. His brother's eyes are open in the rearview mirror, but they're glassy with pain and Sam's throat tightens, remembering how long it had taken to drag Dean back to the car. How much blood has he lost?

"Really fucking stupid, Dean, just... Jesus." Sam continues his tirade, throwing the car into park and dragging his brother's unresisting form back into their motel room. "I swear to God, you have a death wish!" He kicks the door closed and shoves his brother down on the nearest bed, still ranting as he goes to the bathroom to get the medkit. "I know you're smarter than this, why do you always pull this shit?"

Dean probably isn't hearing any of this, considering he's barely conscious, but Sam doesn’t really feel like hearing his defense, so it’s probably for the best.

It’s not like he doesn’t know exactly what Dean would say, anyway.

Sam had a gun too. He could’ve gotten the shot off before the aswang hit him, he was sure of it. Dean was apparently less confident in his abilities. Either that or his programming required him to "protect Sammy," even when he didn't need it, and despite the fact that he was still furious with his little brother.

Whatever the reason, Dean shoved Sam out of the way and took five three-inch claws to the shoulder before Sam managed to put a round of silver into the aswang’s head. When the monster had collapsed on top of Dean, three hundred pounds of dead weight, there was a heart-stopping moment where Sam had thought it was all over.

Thank God it hadn’t been, thank God Dean is here with him, if worse for the wear, bleeding onto a shitty motel duvet.

"I gotta get this shirt off," Sam says more gently, wrapping his fingers around Dean's wrist. "Can you swallow these pills for me?"

"M'okay," Dean slurs, which isn't really an answer, but he reaches for the bottle of whiskey next to Sam's hip with clumsy fingers.

"Pills first," Sam instructs, pressing them to Dean's lips. They're dry and pale and it seems to take a monumental effort just to open them and accept the pain meds. Once he does, Sam lets Dean have a slug of whiskey and then leans him back against the pillows. "Okay, I'm gonna have to cut your shirt off."

"Okay, Sammy."

Dean being so cooperative is possibly the most frightening part of the whole situation. That's how Sam knows it's really serious; Dean only bitches when he's not hurt badly. The worse it is, the quieter he gets. Just another thing Sam blames their father for.

Sam cuts the shirt free with the scissors from the medkit, but it's tacky with blood and adhered to Dean's skin. "You still with me Dean?"

"Still with you..."

"Okay, I'm just gonna do this quick, I'm so sorry." Sam grips the edge of the tattered shirt and rips it free, like a bandaid. A low moan works it's way free from Dean's throat and Sam strokes his hair helplessly, apologizing over and over.

There are five deep lacerations in Dean's shoulder, already red and inflamed, and still bleeding steadily enough to be worrying.

"You're gonna need stitches," Sam whispers. "You want another shot?"

Dean nods, opening his eyes again and focusing on Sam. "Y'okay, Sammy?"

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam sighs, "You made damn sure of that."

"Don't wan' to see you hurt."

"I know, man," Sam says, hoping to cut him off, but Dean keeps talking.

“All that matters, Sammy."

Sam swallows thickly. "Why can't you see that it's the same for me?"

Dean closes his eyes, turning his face away. "No."

It's no good arguing with Dean while he's like this, so Sam lets it go for the moment. "C'mon, Dean, take another swallow before I start stitching."

Dean obediently lets Sam tilt the bottle to his lips and his throat works, taking another shot of whiskey.

Once he gets Dean settled back against the pillows, Sam goes to thread the needle, and then leans over his brother, close enough that his breath fans over the bare skin of Dean's shoulder. Dean's breath hitches and he fists his other hand in the fabric of Sam's t-shirt at the small of his back. Sam isn't sure if it's because of how close he is, or because the pain, but he doesn't say anything or move away from his brother's hand.

Dean keeps on a brave front as Sam stitches up the gashes, barely making a sound the entire time. He grunts in pain when Sam ties off the end of the stitches, and he never lets go of his little brother's shirt.

Sam is exhausted by the time he's finished, too affected by the vision of Dean's blood on his hands. He extracts himself from Dean's grip. The tiny noise of protest Dean makes hooks itself in him like a barb.

"I'll be right back," he promises.

He makes quick work of washing off, and then returns to the main room with a damp washcloth for Dean.

By the time he returns, Dean is starting to drift, the whiskey and pain meds making him drowsy. Sam wipes the blood from his freshly stitched shoulder and gently pats it dry before taping gauze and bandages down over the gashes.

Dean hums and reaches up, brushing his knuckles lightly across Sam's cheekbone.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

There's too much emotion in his green eyes, so Sam drops his gaze. "It's okay." Without thinking, he drops a kiss on the exposed part of Dean's shoulder. He can feel his brother tense, but he's too tired and drugged to react more than that. Within just a few minutes, his breathing evens out as he slips into sleep.

Sam watches him for a long time before he too drops off to sleep.

When Sam wakes up the next morning, he finds that he’s wrapped himself around Dean in his sleep. Luckily, his brother is still out cold, so he doesn’t have to hear his manhood being thrown into question. He manages to slide out from under Dean’s weight without waking him, and goes to the bathroom to shower and change into something that doesn’t have that faint coppery tang of blood to it.

Dean’s still asleep when he emerges in a cloud of steam twenty minutes later, so Sam takes the opportunity to check him over. He doesn’t have a fever and, if the still-white patch of gauze on Dean’s shoulder is any indication, the bleeding has probably stopped. Dean’s expression is smooth in a way that it never is when he’s awake, when frown lines and worry lines are constantly creasing his forehead. Sam wishes there was a way to make Dean look this peaceful in his waking hours, but any hope of that burned away in Sam’s nursery decades ago.

As if aware of Sam’s descent into morbidity and self-blame, Dean’s eyelashes flutter and his green eyes blink open. “Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean, I’m right here,” Sam confirms, leaning forward so that he’s more in his brother’s field of vision. “How are you feeling?”

Dean blinks at him groggily for a few moments, considering. “Hungry.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant. Can you sit up?”

He gets a grunt in return as Dean heaves himself upright. There’s a brief flicker of pain in his expression when he pulls at the stitches, but he moves easy. It shouldn’t be surprising; they’ve both handled wounds much worse than this once, but Sam can’t quite banish the image of Dean disappearing beneath the bulk of the aswang’s corpse.

“Coffee?” Dean asks hopefully. Apparently, he’s not awake enough to give more than one-word responses quite yet. Definitely not awake enough to remember that he was barely speaking to Sam yesterday.

Sam shakes his head. “Not yet,” he apologizes. “I’ve only been up for like twenty minutes, myself. You wanna go somewhere for breakfast, or do you want me to go pick something up?”

Dean’s gaze sharpens, awareness dawning in his expression. “Go out.” Of course. Because if they go out, Sam can’t corner him for a Serious Conversation. He may not be able to read Dean’s mind, but this delay tactic is as familiar as the back of his hand.

“Alright,” Sam answers easily enough. The thing Dean always forgets is that Sam is tenacious, and when you spend literally every waking hour with each other, you can’t really avoid a conversation forever. “I saw a diner up the street that looks promising. Do you need help getting dressed?”

Dean scowls. “I got it.” He gets to his feet and stomps into the bathroom while Sam looks on, barely managing to contain a long-suffering sigh.

Sometimes he wonders if it might be easier to just let Dean have his way.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, now that Dean remembers he’s mad at his brother. All Sam’s stilted attempts at conversation are quickly rebuffed, so he subsists, poking at his eggs in silence. Their waitress stops by to refill their coffees and Sam drops his eyes to the table so he doesn’t have to watch Dean flirt with her.

Halfway through the meal, Sam suddenly remembers something Stacy had said yesterday.

_“I think they killed him!”_

“Hey, Earth to Brainiac over there? What’s wrong with you?”

Sam realizes that he’s sitting with a forkful of eggs frozen halfway to his mouth, and Dean is watching him, concern clear in his expression.

“There’s two." Sam whispers, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Sorry?”

“Bullard wasn’t alone.  There’s another aswang out there.”

Once Sam explains his conclusion to Dean, his brother is obnoxiously (predictably) ready to get back on the horse.

“We gotta take care of this, Sam, before it takes another kid.”

“I will take care of it. You can stay here and keep tabs on the police scanner.”

“Sam--”

“No, Dean. You nearly got yourself killed last night, you’re not jumping right back into this!”

“How will you even know if you’ve found it?”

Sam holds up a small handheld mirror. “The lore says their true form is visible if you look at them upside down.” He palms the mirror, keeping it low by his hip as he demonstrates. “I can check it out without ever setting off any alarm bells.”

“Yeah, but--”

“But nothing. It only takes one shot to the head to kill one, I can handle it.”

He can see Dean visibly struggling to come up with another reason why he can’t do this, but he’s clearly coming up short.

"Fine," he snaps, "But you keep your phone on you, and call me if anything goes wrong."

Sam is well and truly tired of the lecturing, not to mention the cold shoulder he's been getting for the last two days, so he responds without thinking. "Wow, Dean, it almost sounds like you care!"

Dean's face goes white. "Fuck you, Sam."

Sam already regretting the outburst, and his brother's words make him feel ten times worse. "Dean, you know I didn't mean..."

"Yeah," Dean says, "You did."

"Dean..."

"I'll stay here, just...go." It's a clear dismissal. Dean isn't looking at him and every line of his posture is radiating hostility.

But Sam has spent weeks letting it go to avoid an argument, and he can't do it anymore. He grabs his brother's shoulder and spins him back around, dodging the right hook he knew Dean would throw.

"Listen up, you asshole, I don't know what your damage is, the demon thing--"

A flicker of fear crosses Dean's expression, so of course he tries to cover with a joke. "My _damage_? What decade are you living in, Sam?"

"--or the fact that you're in love with me," Sam barrels on relentlessly, "and frankly, I don't care."

Dean blinks at him, mouth hanging open.

"I will always forgive you, no matter what you do," Sam says, quieter. "And as far as the other thing...Dean, I'm so in love with you. I've always been in love with you, you stupid motherfucker."

Before he can think better off it, Sam is closing the gap between them and kissing him. It's not much, just a gentle press of lips, but Dean jerks like he's been electrocuted. Sam pulls back and waits patiently for his brother to meet his eyes again.

As soon as he does, Sam smiles at him. "I have to go take care of the aswang, but we are going to talk about this when I get back."

"Okay," Dean mumbles, still too shocked to put up a fight.

Sam nods. "Okay."

Sam hits the police station first. The case is the last thing on his mind, but he knows Dean is right; they have to take care of this now, before the body count increases.

Besides, Sam already has an idea of who the second aswang might be.

"Hi, is Detective O'Hara in?" He asks at the reception desk.

"Agent Taylor!" Stephanie, the receptionist, blushes, tucking a stray strand of mousy hair behind her ear. "I thought you'd finished up here."

"Just tying up some loose ends," he replies flashing her his brightest grin. Her blush deepens. "And I wanted to hand some case file back over to the detective."

"I'll just page her," Stephanie says. She picks up the phone and dials a few numbers before speaking quietly into the receiver. "She'll be right up."

It's less than five minutes before she appears.

"Agent Taylor," she looks less than thrilled to see him. "What can I do for you?"

She's not wearing sunglasses this time, but Sam wants to be sure. "I just came to check in and see how the victim, Ms. Sanderson, was doing." He palms the mirror and takes a step closer. "And to hand over these case files; some new agents will be assigned to the case, since May and I worked with Bullard before we learned he was corrupt." Sam feels bad that they're dragging a murdered man's name through the mud, but it has been the only way to protect Stacy and themselves.

O'Hara nods, stepping forward to take the files. Sam sneaks a glance down at the mirror. Her reflection is normal and he frowns. "Ms. Sanderson is doing as well as can be expected. The MPD owes you a debt of gratitude, agent, you stopped a heinous crime and uncovered corruption in our department. I'm going to turn it all around."

"Thank you, Detective. Best of luck."

Back out in the sunlight, Sam lens against the Impala, racking his brains. He'd been sure O'Hara was the one, and now that she'd been eliminated, he has no idea how to proceed.

Before he can do anything, his phone starts ringing. “Dean?”

“Hey, Sammy!” Dean’s voice is oddly cheerful, “Having any luck?”

“No, my first lead didn’t pan out,” Sam says. “Is everything alright?”

“Well, you know, this is a real funky town, so it could be anybody. Why don’t you head back this way and we can brainstorm at the motel.”

Sam’s heart starts to race. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

He hangs up the phone without waiting for an answer and jumps into the car. He pulls out, tires squealing as he drives with one hand and checks his gun clip with the other.

 _Funky town._ Dean’s in trouble. And Sam isn’t about to lose him again.

When Sam gets back to the motel, he notices that the blinds are drawn. They’re down at the very end of the building, so he’s not surprised that the aswang got in without raising an alarm. The question now is how he’s going to get in and take care of this situation without having the entire county’s police force coming down on them.

There’s a silencer in the trunk that they rarely use--not a lot of room for subtlety in their line of work--so Sam fishes it out and screws it on to the barrel of his gun. The aswang made Dean call to lure him here, so there’s no point trying to sneak in, and no place to try it even if he wanted to. Sam does angle his arm back so the gun isn’t visible as he opens the door, hoping against hope that he can get the drop on the thing before she hurts his brother.

“Ah, Sam, so glad you could join us,” their waitress from the diner says. She grins at him. “Why don’t you come on in and shut the door? Oh, and while you’re at it, put that gun on the floor and slide it over here, nice and easy.”

She’s standing against the opposite wall, her snake eyes flickering with poorly concealed amusement. Dean is tied to a chair in front of her and Sam can see from here that whatever struggle they had has pulled Dean’s stitches. The sleeve of his shirt is dark with blood, and his face is ashen. Worse though, are the aswang’s sharp claws playing at Dean’s throat.

Immediately, Sam raises his hands in the air. “I’m gonna put the gun on the floor,” he says, crouching down and laying it on the carpet.

“Kick it over here,” she demands.

“Sam, don’t--” Dean starts, but stops abruptly when her claws press a little more tightly against his throat. Sam uses the side of his foot to nudge the gun across the floor towards her. She laughs, a delighted little girl giggle that’s at odds with her unnerving slitted eyes and three-inch claws.

“When I first got here,” she says conversationally, “I was just gonna kill him and jump you when you got back. It would’ve been easy.”

“What changed your mind?” Sam says, mostly to keep her talking. His eyes sweep the room, trying to find something, anything that can get them out of this situation.

“Doug was all I had,” she hisses, eyes flashing. “I loved him more than my own life. And you killed him.”

Sam spreads his hands. “He killed those children first. Were we supposed to just let you get away with that?”

“It’s our nature!” she shrieks, “What, should we just let ourselves starve?”

“I’ve known plenty of creatures to resist their baser instincts,” Sam replies. “You don’t have to be a monster.”

The aswang throws her head back and laughs. Dean catches Sam’s eyes and then glances deliberately towards the floor near Sam’s foot. Sam glances down and sees the handle of one of their duffels sticking out from under the edge of the bed. He looks back at Dean, a silent question in his eyes.

_Is there a weapon in there?_

Dean shrugs. Sam doesn’t have any longer to think about it, because the aswang’s attention is back on them.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sam.” she snarls. “I am a monster. And you killed the only person I ever loved.”

“So why not just kill me when I was out alone earlier?” Sam asks, trying to buy more time. He’s not sure yet if he’s willing to risk going for the duffle bag. If he’s wrong, Dean is almost certainly dead. Even if he’s right, it’ll all depend on him being faster than her. He remembers how quick Bullard moved earlier.

“I saw you in the diner,” she whispers, like she’s sharing secrets with him. “I saw how you looked at him. I will kill you, Sam Winchester. But first I want you to feel what I felt, so I’m going to take the most important person in your life from you and make you watch.” She pulls her arm back from Dean’s neck, preparing to strike. Sam can’t lose his brother. Not again.

He dives for the bag, thrusting his hand blindly into it’s depths and miracle of miracles, he feels his fingers close around cold metal. Without pausing, he yanks Dean’s ivory handled Colt out of the bag and fires.

The bullet hits the aswang right between the eyes and she crumples to the floor without ever laying a hand on Dean.

Sam’s hands are trembling too much to keep holding the gun, so he tosses it on the bedspread. When he looks back up, Dean is staring at him with wide eyes.

“That is the most badass thing I’ve ever seen you do,” he tells Sam with complete sincerity.

“I’ll be here all week,” Sam says faintly. He hurries to Dean’s side to untie him. “Did she hurt you?”

“Just ripped these stitches,” Dean answers, “But it’s not too bad.” As soon as his hands are free, he starts rubbing his forearms, trying to get the circulation flowing again. “Once you stitch them up again, I’ll be right as rain.”

Sam nods, still feeling dangerously unsteady. “Let--lemme go get the kit.”

“Wait, Sammy,” Dean stands, grabbing Sam’s wrist as he turns to go. “You know. I. We. Ugh, fuck.”

“Dean, what--?” Sam starts to ask, but then Dean shoves him against the wall and presses their mouths together.

Sam is too surprised to react at first, so he just stands there gripping Dean's elbows. Dean makes a soft noise, turns his head slightly and kisses Sam for real.

It's exactly as good as Sam always dreamed it would be, hot and wet and firm. Dean's lips are impossibly soft and he clearly knows what he's doing. His tongue brushes across Sam's bottom lip and Sam opens to it, losing himself for a few minutes to the kiss. He manages to get his hands on his brother’s hips and pull him closer. Dean makes a startled noise and starts to pull back, but before Sam can even protest, he stops himself and presses back in, kissing Sam hard.

It seems to go on for hours, leaning up against the wall and kissing, kissing, kissing. Sam manages to get a hand up the back of Dean’s shirt and he twitches when Sam smoothes his palm down his spine. Dean is completely motionless for a brief moment, and then he grips the hem of Sam's shirt like he’s going to pull it over his head.

The hesitation is enough to bring Sam back to himself and pulls back from Dean’s mouth with some reluctance. Dean’s got his eyes cast down and his fingers are trembling.

Sam jerks back, feeling like he's been doused with ice water. Dean peeks up at him and he gets a glimpse of the uncertainty in his brother's eyes before Dean's expression smoothes out.

"Whassamatter, Sammy? Too much for you?"

"You--" Sam stammers, but he can't even finish the question. The answer is clear, whether Dean would admit to it or not. He changes tack. "What're you doing, Dean?"

Dean's eyes narrow. "What's it look like, dipshit?" He grabs Sam's hips and pulls him flush. Sam barely manages to bite back a groan, eyes falling shut. "You wanna, right?"

Sam wasn't quite ready for this conversation. "You're hurt," he points out and it sounds weak, even to his own ears.

"So?" Dean retorts and then winces like that's not exactly what he meant to say. It's still the closest thing to honest that Sam's going to get.

_This ain’t about me._

It gives Sam the strength to gently push his brother away. Dean looks torn between annoyed and terrified, but when he speaks, his voice comes out harsh.

"Goddamnit, Sam, do you wanna fuck me or not?"

"Dean..." Sam starts, but his brother isn't listening, he never fucking listens. He’d thought earlier that he’d finally made his brother understand, but that’s clearly not the case. Dean backs away from Sam so fast he nearly trips over his own feet. The expression on his face is furious and maybe even heartbroken, if Sam dared apply the word to his brother. It makes him feel like someone is squeezing a fist around his lungs. He reaches for Dean, but Dean flinches away. Again.

"There was no reason to lie to me, asshole," he sneers and, shit, are those tears in his eyes? "I don't need your fuckin' pity."

"That's not--" Sam tries, stepping forward, but Dean barrels right over him.

"I need some air, I'm going out." He shoulders past Sam, ignoring his protests; we have to get out of town, you're injured, oh god please don't leave, until Sam reaches out and grabs his forearm.

Dean doesn't hesitate. It's almost like he was waiting for an excuse. Before Sam even realizes it's coming, Dean reels back and decks him.

When they were kids, Dean used to get in trouble with Dad for pulling his punches during sparring practice. There's nothing restrained about this swing. Sam staggers, vision going grey at the edges, and releases his brother's arm. As soon as he's free, Dean freezes, a look of stunned horror in his expression. Sam, still seeing stars, stumbles to the closest bed and sinks down, clutching his nose. There's blood on his hands and for a few fractured moments, Sam can't figure out where it came from.

When he finally pulls himself together, there's blood all down the front of his nicest dress shirt and a pounding headache has started up somewhere behind his left eye. Dean is standing in front of him like he doesn’t know what to do. His fingers twitch like he wants to patch his little brother up, but he’s the one who bloodied Sam’s nose in the first place.

“Sam--”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam cuts him off. “I got it. No more talking about my goddamned feelings.”

Dean looks like Sam just spat in his face. “That’s not--”

“It isn’t, Dean? Because you’ve been giving me the runaround for weeks. And I’ve mostly let it go for this long because I thought if I gave you time you would pull yourself back together. But you just keep burying it, like this shit has never come back to haunt us before.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. His fingers curl into a fist and he looks down.

Sam sighs. He’s so damn tired. “Sit down, you jackass. I need to redo those stitches and then we gotta get out of here. Someone’s bound to come to investigate that gunshot any minute.”

Dean doesn’t even try to respond, just drops down on the edge of the other bed like a puppet that’s strings have been cut. Sam drags himself to his feet and stumbles into the bathroom. He glances up at his reflection and sighs. Sure enough, his left eye is already swollen halfway shut and starting to turn colors. No wonder Dean looked so guilty. He looks like hell, and the horrible overhead light is doing him no favors. The water is cold and clear, though, and after a few minutes of scrubbing his face, Sam feels almost human. He dry-swallows four aspirin and combs his fingers through his hair before he heads back out into the main room, sewing kit in hand.

Dean is still sitting on the bed, though he doesn’t look at Sam when he addresses him. “Alright, shirt off.” He’s quick to obey, though, only wincing slightly when he tugs the offending garment over his injured shoulder.

Sam threads the needle and sits down next to him. Dean is picking at a hole in his jeans and determinedly evading eye contact, so Sam starts on the stitches.

Dean doesn’t even make any noise, though without painkillers this has to hurt. Finally Sam decides that being direct is the only real option. He stops what he’s doing and stares at Dean, waiting for his brother to notice him.

Dean does, almost immediately, but he doesn't look up. His shoulders tense and he starts picking at his jeans with increased fervor. Sam waits. It takes a few more minutes, but Dean eventually breaks. "What, Sam?"

“Do you remember that town in Arkansas we stayed in when you were nineteen? Outside Hardy?”

“Cherokee Village,” Dean murmurs.

“Dad dropped us off in the middle of the hunt and he was so pissed when he got back and realized he’d have to drive all the way to another county to get whiskey.” Sam says, his voice practiced nonchalance. Dean finally lifts his eyes to meet Sam’s, curiosity in his expression warring with a look that says he knows better than to play along.

But Dean’s always been too curious for his own good. “What about it, Sam?”

Sam shrugs. “That’s where we lived the first time I ever followed you out on one of your hookups.”

Several expressions flash across Dean’s features in quick succession, and all the color drains from his face. As soon as Sam finishes his stitches, he’s up and out of his seat, throwing his shirt back on and picking up the mostly packed duffle next to his bed before walking out the door.

Sam waits a few minutes because he doesn't really feel like getting hit again. He grabs his bag, and does a quick sweep and snags up anything Dean missed before finally heading outside. He hands a “do not disturb” sign on the door in hopes that it’ll buy them some time before someone discovers the body.

Dean is standing next to the Impala, his expression hovering somewhere between outrage and bewilderment. "Give me the fucking keys, Sam."

"Oh, you mean these?" Sam asks, jangling the keys he'd pickpocketed from his brother on the end of his finger. "Yeah, I don't think I will. I'm not really feeling like walking back to Kansas right now."

Dean glares at him for a few more moments, but apparently he's not in the mood to walk either, because he stomps over to the passenger side and waits for Sam to unlock the doors.

Sam does, and as soon as they're both in, he guns it out of the parking lot, tires spitting gravel. Dean gives him a reproachful look, but doesn't say anything, stubborn as always. It's only when Sam flies right past the exit to head home that he starts to look concerned. Still, he doesn't say a word. The sign indicating that they're leaving the county flashes by, and Dean finally breaks.

"Where the fuck are we going?"

Sam shrugs. "Somewhere you can't just walk away from me when I start taking."

Dean pounds a first on the dash. "Goddamnit, Sam, this isn't funny."

"No, it really isn't," Sam agrees. "But since you refuse to take it seriously anyway, I'm just doing what I need to. Desperate times."

"This is bullshit," Dean snaps. "You made yourself pretty clear, there's nothing to discuss."

Sam jerks the wheel roughly to the side, pulling off into the shoulder and slamming on the breaks. He throws the car into park and twists on the bench seat to face his brother.

"Hey!" Dean yelps, predictable as always. "My car!"

"Why is it that when I say that I'm in love with you in a perfectly straightforward manner, you don't believe me, but a two-second hesitation when you come on to me--after your second near-death experience in as many days, might I add--is making myself 'pretty clear?'"

"You're the one who freaked out when it started to be about sex!”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to have sex to begin with!” Sam retorts before he can stop himself.

For a moment, the car is dead silent. Dean is staring at him with wide eyes and Sam’s already mentally beating himself up. This is not how he had planned to do this.

Dean recovers quickly. “What the fuck are you talking about, Sam, I’ve had more sex than you’ll have for the rest of your life.”

“There’s a huge difference between behavior and desire, Dean, I know you know that.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sam sighs. “Will you please stop jumping down my throat? I’m trying to be supportive here!”

Dean sets his jaw stubbornly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That first time I followed you. Cherokee Village. Do you remember it at all? You were nineteen, and there was this house party.

“I didn’t want to go--I had a test on Tuesday and you were pissed because you didn’t want to leave me home alone, but I finally convinced you that I would be fine on my own for a couple hours,” Sam continues, picking at a seam in his jeans rather than looking into Dean’s eyes for this confession. He’s still not 100% sure that his brother isn’t going to book it out of here; take off walking and then Sam will never see him again.

“Anyway, I, uh, I started to think about all the girls that would be hanging off you all night and I got pretty jealous.”

“So you followed me.” Dean says, but his voice is completely inscrutable.

"Pretty much," Sam admits. "And then you disappeared with this redheaded girl..." He trails off, unsure how to continue. Dean raises his eyebrows, a clear challenge. "I saw you...go down on her," he says, face heating. "But that's all that happened. You didn't get off at all. You wouldn’t even let her touch you."

Dean shrugs, aiming for causal and missing by about a mile. "There's more to it than getting off, Sammy Boy. I'm a little concerned you don't know this bit of sex education."

"Dean!" Sam snaps. "Can you just quit it already? I've been watching you my whole life, you really think I didn't notice this? That’s just one of hundreds of examples. You think I didn't hear Dad giving you a lecture about what it means to be a man because even he noticed that you cared way less about sex than most sixteen year old boys?"

"He thought I was gay!" Dean protests, though it's not even close to a good defense.

"Well I seriously doubt he even knew asexuality existed," Sam shot back. "And even if he had, you're so dead set on overcompensating--"

"Asexuality?" Dean cut him off. "What the fuck, Sam, I'm not an amoeba!"

Sam pinches the bridge of his noise and counts to ten. "That's not what it means. It's a sexuality, just like being straight or gay. It means you don't experience sexual attraction."

There's a moment of silence, Dean's expression curious despite himself, and for a brief moment, Sam thinks he's gotten through to his brother.

Then Dean's eyes harden. "That's not a real thing. Even if it were, even I'm not that screwed up."

"There's not anything wrong with it, Dean!" Sam snaps, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "That would be the same as saying I'm screwed up for being bisexual. It's just an orientation."

"Are you done preaching, Sam? I wanna go home."

Sam makes an inarticulate sound of irritation. "What are you so afraid of? Who exactly do you think is gonna judge you?"

Dean's eyes flicker to his face and then drop back to his lap.

"Me?" Sam practically shouts. "Why the hell would I bring it up just to mock you for it? Do you really think that poorly of me?" He knows this is probably just his brother's crippling self-loathing manifesting again, but it stings nonetheless.

"No, Sammy, I just..." Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head. "This is all kinda out of nowhere for me. You start saying all this crazy shit, and if it's all true--and I'm not saying it is--but if it were, why the hell would you wanna stick around for that? If you’re really..." he swallows, face turning pink.

“In love with you,” Sam helps him along. Dean grimaces.

“Yeah, that. But you’re not...this--this asexual thing. Then why would you want to be with someone who was? If I was. I’m not saying--”

"There's more to a romance than sex, Dean. It's not the only way to be intimate with someone."

Dean winces. "Yeah, I know." He doesn't sound very convinced.

“It’s not,” Sam insists. “There’s so much more to it than that. And if you’re really worried about the physical aspect of it, we can work through it, figure out what all you are comfortable with...”

Dean shakes his head. “I cannot believe we’re having this conversation.”

"I love you," Sam says simply, ignoring the pained face that Dean makes every time things get remotely emotional. "I have loved you for as long as I can remember. That means it doesn’t bother me, no matter how you identify. What does bother me is you doing something you don't want to because you think you need to to make me stay. Newsflash: I'm not going anywhere."

Dean looks more uncomfortable than Sam has ever seen him, miles from the unflappable mask he usually wears. "So you've been a creepy voyeur for years, and then you made up a word to make me feel less like a freak? That's weird, Sam."

Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean is glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, grinning at him, consummate annoying older brother. They’re going to be okay.

“Yeah, well. Who taught me to be such a weirdo?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. “Dunno, but it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

Sam shakes his head and restarts the car, steering carefully back onto the highway. “Keep telling yourself that, Dean.”

As they start to pick up speed, Dean reaches down and deliberately places his hand on top of Sam’s on the seat between them. Surprised, Sam shoots a look over at him, but Dean is gazing as nonchalantly as he can manage out the window. Sam turns his hand over so it’s palm-up underneath Dean’s. There’s only a moment of hesitation before Dean twines their fingers together. When Sam looks at his brother again, the corner of Dean’s mouth is curved into a smile.

 **  
** Yeah, they’re gonna be just fine.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for'Night Flight'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665202) by [stormbrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/pseuds/stormbrite)




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